


Defenders of the Universe

by caliginousink



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Adult Content, Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Related, Canon Universe, Explicit Language, F/M, I Apologize For The Terrible Tagging, I'm Bad At Tagging, It's Either So Specific There's Hundreds Of Tags, Or It's Vague, Reader-Insert, Self-Insert, explicit content, reader - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-09
Updated: 2018-10-03
Packaged: 2019-07-10 02:03:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15939491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caliginousink/pseuds/caliginousink
Summary: Training to be a Garrison medic isn't as glamorous or coveted a position as, say, being a pilot. But it suits you just fine being "support class" and taking a back seat to the exploits of others.But there's a lot more to you than you're letting on, isn't there?All it takes is one (1) unplanned trip to outer space to blow your cover.*On indefinite hiatus until further notice.





	1. Failure to Land

**Author's Note:**

> This is a Voltron x Fem!Reader-insert focusing mainly on a love triangle between Keith | Reader | Shiro because I can't help myself and I am weak to the whims of cliche. The plot follows canon but with a few details (*cough* corrected *cough*) as well as the time between and during events changed a bit to allow for more character development (*cough* character development here means falling in love *cough*).
> 
> *Fun aside: I originally planned on calling this fic something like "Guardians of the Universe" as a play on Guardians of the Galaxy but then put Defenders in the beginning like an idiot and now that I've already cross-posted it on different sites I can't really bring myself to go back and correct it. urgh why am i like this

"Galaxy Garrison flight log five-eleven-fourteen." Lance's voice has that particular quality to it right now, the one that means he's going to be a smug little shit today. Which he is...most of the time. "Begin descent to Kerberos for rescue mission."  
  
        The spaceship's nose tips down and the resulting turbulence is nearly enough to shake Pidge's glasses off his face. It's like being stuck in one of those massage chairs at the mall that pulverizes your muscles and jars your bones.  
  
        "Lance, can you keep this thing straight?" Hunk is positioned behind the pilot, looking none too pleased with the current setup. If he could melt to the floor like warm jelly he probably would.  
  
        " _Relax_ , I'm just gettin' a feel for the stick." Lance gives an exaggerated shrug. You can't see him that well from your position tucked in the corner but you're sure the self-satisfied smirk that he'd had on when he first strapped in is still there. "I mean it's not like I did-- _THIS_!"  
  
        The ship is sent into a dive that has everyone besides the "designated driver" screaming and you questioning why you ever thought blasting off to play space doc was a good idea. Exploring the last frontier isn't so appealing with a certain lanky Cuban at the helm about to murder his crew.  
  
        "Lance, if you value our friendship, I swear...!" You have half a mind to throw something at his head but everything in the cockpit is integrated into the hull seamlessly. There's always the emergency first aid kit but a handful of bandages probably wouldn't do much damage.  
  
        "Or  _this_!" He isn't listening of course and sends the ship careening to the side, making everyone jerk violently in their seats. You can feel the pins in your hair slipping loose.  
  
        Kerberos, one of Jupiter's moons, looms closer than before. The icy ball a desolate and uninviting picture. You shiver and not just from the thought of how cold it must be. Thinking back on the Kerberos Mission always twists your insides.  
  
        "Okay, unless you want to wipe beef stroganoff out of all the little nooks and crannies of this thing,  _you better knock it off man_!" Hunk's gripping the armrests like they're his lifeline. You grimace at the thought of the creamy noodles. The Garrison's cafeteria food isn't pleasant before it's been chewed, let alone after.  
  
        There's a frantic beeping.  
  
        "We've picked up a distress beacon!" Pidge calls over his shoulder, ignoring Hunk's obvious discomfort.  
  
        You're now breaching Kerberos atmosphere. It's reminiscent of the mythological Jotunheim, land of the Frost Giants. Your mother always told you stories about such fantastical places rather than fairy tales. And this moon is probably just as terrifying with or without monstrous humanoids. Especially since, holy fuck, the ground seems to be getting closer at breakneck speed.  
  
        "All right, look alive team!" Lance is the only one excited. "Pidge, track coordinates."  
  
        Pidge is concentrating on the screens in front of him. Even in the relatively bright lighting of the cockpit, the monitors cast a glow over his baby face. "Copy."  
  
        The ship is shaking, again, this time with even more enthusiasm. Alarms blaring.  
  
        "Knock it off, Lance!  _Please_!" Hunk begs, squirming.  
  
        Lance peeks around the high back of his chair. "This one's on you, buddy. We've got a hydraulic stabilizer out."  
  
        You don't know what that's supposed to mean but it doesn't sound promising.  
  
        Hunk pulls the tablet that sprouts from his seat closer to his face, just as the urge to vomit crashes over him. "Oh no..." He mumbles. Everyone knows what that means.  
  
        "Oh, no. Fix now, puke later." Lance orders, mood souring.  
  
        "I lost contact." Pidge is kind enough to inform. "The shaking is interfering with our sensors."  
  
        You think you're beginning to understand how Hunk feels this time around. Relieving yourself of lunch suddenly seems like a good idea with the way your stomach is migrating upwards.  
  
        "Come on, Hunk!" It's a bit unfair how annoyed Lance is with the poor dude, considering Hunk isn't the one about to crash.  
  
        "Hydra locks or whatever aside, I don't think Hunk can fix your TERRIBLE piloting!" You'll make a note to kick a boot straight up Lance's ass later. If you're still alive.  
  
        Out of all the passengers, Pidge is the most collected so far, but even he's beginning to wiggle nervously.  
  
        "It's not responding." Hunk groans and unbuckles himself, crawling across the cold metal flooring to get to the main gearbox. He hunches over it the way a drunkard would their toilet.  
  
        "Never mind, fellas...and our lovely nurse." Lance can probably feel the daggers you're glaring.  
  
        "It's  _medic_. I'm a  _doctor_." You hiss.  
  
        "Ah, ah, ah--you're a cadet. You don't have a doctor's license yet!" Lance waggles his pointer finger.  
  
        Usually, you can tolerate Lance's cavalier attitude--in fact, he's amusing company most other times. Right now isn't one of those times. Right now you want to use your knowledge of the human body to do very bad things that would likely end with your expulsion from the Garrison.  
  
        "Thar she blows. Preparing for approach on visual." He's clearly insane.  
  
        "I don't think that's advisable with our current mechanical and, uh, gastrointestinal issues." Pidge says, shooting Hunk a withering look.  
  
        "Agreed," The engineer pants.  
  
        "Stop worrying. This baby can take it, can't you, champ?" Lance pats the dash lovingly just as the ship begins to shudder. "See? She was nodding. She was nodding."  
  
        Pidge sends him a look halfway between pity and murderous intent.  
  
        You're now busy trying to fix your hair, the pins have begun falling out and rolling across the floor. You should've worn a ponytail instead, but it's not like you knew things would get so messy. Maybe you should just cut it? But your parents would be devastated, especially mom.  
  
        "Pidge, hail down and let 'em know their ride is here." Lance tells him.  
  
        Pidge, considering his short stature, has to unbuckle himself to reach the comm. Over the comm spec's head is a weird place to stash it but okay. Maybe this was just an older, not very well thought out vessel. But it's not like you can tell the difference between a passenger airplane and a rocket ship anyway. You leave the details to the space nerds (Pidge and Hunk). "Attention, lunar vessel--" He yelps as sudden turbulence throws him to the floor. Ouch.  
  
        "What are you doing? Buckle your belt. And, Hunk, stop that shaking!" Lance whines.  
  
        Well, the shaking isn't really all Hunk's fault, now is it?  
  
        "I'm try--oh, no..." Hunk then proceeds to vomit all over the gearbox. The retching noise he makes prompts you to cover your mouth. The gearbox is closed by the sheepish looking handyman and no one comments on it. He isn't trembling anymore but his complexion lacks the healthy color it usually does.  
  
        "Attention, lunar vessel, this is Galaxy Garrison Rescue Craft One Victor Six Three Tango. Coming in for extraction." Pidge speaks into the comm as Hunk straps himself back in. "Against crew recommendations." He adds with a side-eye to the pilot.  
  
        At this rate, you guys are the ones that'll need rescuing.  
  
        "Hey, no time for that now. They're going under and we're going in!" Lance accelerates.  
  
        The stark terrain is getting closer and closer. Frozen outcroppings flying past the screen.  
  
        "Look out for that overhang!" Pidge points, jaw unhinged, about to jump out of his seat or his skin.  
  
        "No worries." Lance replies with that damned tone of voice he uses when overconfident and overly pleased. Like the cat that didn't just get the canary but the whole aviary. "My first year in flight school, know what they called me? They called me 'The Tailor' because of how I thread the needle."  
  
        You wish he could see you rolling your eyes so far back into your skull they'll be stuck there for a while. "They did not! The only person that wasn't around for your first year was Pidge." They'd called him lots of things during his first year but not much of it had been flattering.  
  
        "Come around, come around! Come on, come on!" Lance grits his teeth and it's only now he probably realizes his mistake.  
  
        The ship strikes the side of the overhang and everything shudders, screens flashing red.  
  
        "We lost a wing!" Hunk is shocked and indignant.  
  
        "Oh, man." Is all Lance can get out before the ship "crashes" and the screens go black.  
  
        " _Simulation failed_." A robotic voice announces over the speakers as if to rub it in.  
  
        The doors to the simulation pod slide open with a hiss. You can feel Commander Iverson's one good eye staring your team down.  
  
        "Roll out, donkeys!" Iverson's voice has always been harsh, gravely. He cuts right to the chase, pushing everyone's buttons. But what are superior officers for, right?  
  
        "Nice work, Tailor." Pidge snarks as you all scramble to get out.  
  
        You don't have time to pick up your fallen hairpins. They're gone forever. Lost. It wouldn't look very dignified picking them up on your hands and knees anyway. Instead, you're made to stand in a line with Lance, Pidge, and Hunk before the rest of the class. Half your hair is hanging around your shoulders and the rest is still trying to retain the shape of what may have been a cute bun once upon a time.  
  
        "Let's see if we can't make an example of you lot." Iverson booms, pacing in front of the four of you. It's hard to tell whether he's genuinely displeased or delighted by the chance to hound some kids. The medals on his pressed and starched uniform glint beneath blinding fluorescents. "Can anyone point out the mistakes these four so-called cadets made in the simulator?"  
  
        You're painfully aware of the other cadets watching, eyes like vultures. Some of them are openly laughing while others are much harder to read. It all translates to painful embarrassment.  
  
        "The engineer puked in the main gearbox!" A boy with messy hair and tan skin says at the same time he raises his hand. He's in many of your classes but you always forget his name.  
  
        "As everyone knows, vomit is  _not_ an approved lubricant for engine systems." Iverson leans into Hunk's space as he says this, intimidating him. "What else?"  
  
        "The comm spec removed his safety harness." A girl with her hair pulled into a tight knot adds, arms crossed. She seems the austere type.  
  
        "The pilot crashed!" Another girl with glasses and brown hair bursts, throwing her hand in the hair as if she's about to catch a frisbee.  
  
        Well, if anything there's the consolation no one's decided to pick on you. But there isn't much for a medic to do during simulations anyway--besides pray. So not much to really mess up.  
  
        "Correct." Iverson puts his hands on his hips. "And worst of all, the whole jump they're arguing with each other. Hell, if you're going to be so bad at drills individually, you'd better at least be able to work as a team!"  
  
        One can only hope this is the end of his lecture. But Iverson didn't get to the rank of commander shortwinded.  
  
        "Galaxy Garrison exists to turn young cadets like you into the next generation of elite astroexplorers. These kinds of mistakes, however, are exactly what cost the lives of the men on the Kerberos Mission." Iverson's words strike an unpleasant chord. Like a knife in one's chest. It's bad enough they had to use the Kerberos Mission as a role-play scenario...now they're going to debase the memory of...  
  
        You catch yourself. Thinking about it like that makes it seem they're...and they're not dead! You have to believe they aren't.  
  
        "That's not true, sir!" Pidge clenches his fists, brow furrowed. There's a shift in the air. Even the other students aren't so giddy anymore.  
  
        "What did you say?" Iverson whips around on his heel. Ready to teach Pidge a hard lesson.  
  
        Lance is quick to sling an arm around Pidge's diminutive shoulders, clapping a palm over his friend's mouth--a mouth that is pretty big in proportion to the rest of him. "Sorry, sir. I think he hit his head when he fell out of his chair. But point taken." The smile he sends the commander is unconvincing.  
  
        "I hope I don't need to remind you that the only reason you're here is because the best pilot in your class had a discipline issue and flunked out." Iverson growls, hands clasped behind his back. The look in his muddy eye is a bit scary. "Don't follow in his footsteps."


	2. Best Laid Plans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cross-posting this giant piece of shit has been a pain in my entire asshole. Just so you're aware.

You stare, sullen, at the metal tray before you. What's been slapped onto it is supposed to resemble a meal but to even call this slop edible is far too generous.  
  
        It's beef stroganoff. The same stroganoff that'd been served for lunch or at the very least, it's whatever happens to be masquerading as stroganoff. The sauce sticks to the pasta the way it does when it's been microwaved. It's sadness personified. The cold, harsh lighting of the cafeteria doesn't do much to make the dish seem more appealing either.

        Welcome to the Galaxy Garrison. We have stroganoff for breakfast, lunch, dinner, and if we're lucky--dessert.

        The side dishes are new, however; just some tasteless green beans and buttered toast. Earlier it was a mix of steamed vegetables. At least they're trying to keep it somewhat interesting, right?

        You're hungry but not hungry enough to do anything besides pick at the green beans. It appears they've been boiled (gross--who does that?) but left unseasoned. Now, they're cooling off, drying out, and only good for stabbing with a plastic spork.  
  
        "No way, man, he doesn't really seem the type." Hunk elbows Lance at the same time he shoves some leftovers into his mouth. It's amazing how much gusto he can muster considering he'd been upchucking stroganoff all over the simulation pod earlier.  
  
        "What do you mean 'the type'?" Lance scoffs. Like you, he isn't very interested in the food. He's using his utensils more like props as he waves his hands. "I'm telling you, dude. Pidge totally has a girlfriend. Why do you think he isn't here? Because he ran away to facetime his lover." Here he wiggles thin eyebrows.  
  
        "I doubt it." You butt in. You've been listening to them go back and forth across the table ever since the three of you sat down. "He's probably just messing around with his computers and stuff. Like always."  
  
        Pidge had shown you some of the tech he'd miraculously scrapped together. They were fascinating insofar that'd he'd been able to make them...but the terminology he'd thrown at you might as well have been a foreign language. He'd stopped being so excited to show you things after realizing you couldn't understand a single word coming out of his mouth.  
  
        "Yeah, messing around sure is one way of putting it." Lance never backs down once he gets an idea into his head. No matter how outlandish.  
  
        "Stop shoving your nose into other people's business." You give Lance a stern look, one he knows all too well but has never actually been intimidated by.  
  
        His eyes, such a nice shade of blue, light up as an idea occurs to him. You'd call his sparkling orbs pretty if you didn't already know what was about to happen next.  
  
        "Speaking of other people's  _b-u-s-i-n-e-s-s_...how's it goin' with Keith?" Lance clasps his hands over his heart, posing dramatically, like a soap opera starlet awaiting her true love's confession.  
  
        You kick his shin underneath the table (eliciting a sharp, "Ow!"). "When will you stop bothering me about that? We're just friends!" The blush creeping past the collar of your Garrison issued jacket is, of course, only because Lance is purposefully trying to embarrass you.  
  
        Ever since the energetic boy found out about you keeping in contact with everyone's favorite drop out, he never shut up about it. How it was a "thing". It wasn't a thing. It was completely ridiculous for him to keep bringing it up every chance he got.  
  
        God, he's so insufferable sometimes.  
  
        "Uh huh, sure, and I'm the Queen of England. Listen, there's no way Keith--Mister-Lone-Wolf--would 'stay in touch' with anyone just because. He's basically a hermit!" Lance probably isn't going to drop the subject until you get married (to someone who isn't Keith, because if that was the case he would never stop saying "I told you so!", not that you're thinking about it).  
  
        Hunk is glancing between the two of you, scratching at the wispy sideburns peeking from beneath his signature yellow headband. He can't seem to decide on remaining quiet or speaking up.  
  
        "Yes, he does it's called because platonic friendship." You throwback. It sounds a lot more defensive spilling out of your mouth than it did in your head.  
  
        "Hmmm," Hunk is rubbing his chin with one big hand. "Actually, I think [Name] and James would make a better match. Besides we already know he likes her. For sure."  
  
        Both you and Lance make horrified faces. Features twisted in comic disgust. "What? No, absolutely not, I can't stand that dude!" Lance pokes Hunk in the ribs with a plastic knife, a warning to never mention such a thing again.  
  
        You think back at all the times James has tried--and failed--at flirting. It's not like he wasn't a nice kid or that he was ugly. But even the suggestion of him being a romantic interest makes you squeamish.   
  
        "Don't quit your day jobs to become matchmakers, guys, you suck at it." You suppose you should probably try to stomach some dinner. You'd regret not eating after curfew when there's nothing but the gurgles of your belly to keep company.  
  
        Well, you'd have your three other roommates but the four of you never talked much. Becoming friends was like some unspoken rule none of them wanted to break.  
  
        Lance's features morph into what could almost be called pity. "Oh, you sweet summer child." His sigh is big and loud. "Too precious for this world."  
  
        You let out a heavy sigh of your own, take a sip of water, and resign yourself to simply ignoring him. Sometimes the best defense is to not defend at all. This is especially true when it comes to Lance's teasing.  
  
        "I'm only surprised you're into mullets." The lanky boy runs his hands through short mocha locks. Feigning disappointment.  
  
        His bait is cheap. Even if you really want to clarify that Keith, technically, doesn't have a mullet--it's too messy and long in the front...right? Well, actually, you don't know much about hairstyles. Does the mullet have many variations?  
  
        Oh God, what if Lance is right and it really is a mullet?  
  
        "Have you ridden on his hoverbike yet?" Hunk asks, innocently enough. He never knew Keith quite as well as Lance or you do. They'd never really talked in class all that much, let alone outside of it. But everyone knew of Keith's affinity for motorcycles without wheels.  
  
        "I bet the bike isn't the only thing he's given a--" Lance doesn't get to finish his thought because Hunk is slapping a hand over his perverted mouth, nearly covering his whole face.  
  
        "Inappropriate!" Hunk whisper yells.  
  
        Lance isn't at all phased. He shrugs, giving Hunk's palm a lick  
  
        "Oh, gross! What the hell, man?" Hunk wipes the spit off on his moss green vest with a deep scowl. The various pockets must be full because they make jingly noises as his fingers graze them. "Ugh, I don't want your germs."  
  
        A buzzing in your pocket draws your attention away. It's your phone, of course. You half expect it to be your mother. You'd talked to her after the disaster that was the simulation. She always checks up after a couple hours when she knows something is bothering you.  
  
        But no, speak of the devil and he shall appear (or text, as is the case).

_bring bandages n tape if u can_

**-Keth**

        Not much for pleasantries, is he?

_omg wtf u do are u ok???_

- **Me**

        Lance and Hunk share a glance as you begin tapping the screen furiously.

_plz say u didnt do anythin stupid i fukcin swear_

- **Me**

        The symbol denoting Keith typing out a reply pops up. You may not be able to see him but you know he's rolling his eyes.

_relax -_-_

_im fine_

_just makin_ _somethin_

- **Keth**

        "Oh, look at her. I bet it's the other half of my one true--"  
  
        " _Lance..._ "

_what do u need em 4_

_plastercast?_

_and i cant get them 2 u until weekend_

- **Me**

        You hope and pray it's just some silly little craft project. Knowing Keith though...it's probably something mischevious, perhaps even delinquent. He's always been a rule breaker.

        Lance has begun to sing, "[Name] and Keith, sittin' in a tree--" But Hunk forcibly quiets him.

_lets meetup after curfew_

_its important_

- **Keth**

        Just what exactly is this idiot up to?

 


	3. Into the Frying Pan

"Keith!" You tug fistfuls of hair, pacing in front of the couch, about to wear a hole through his floor. "Where did you even learn to make these?!" A well of anxiety presses against your insides. There's a lot crossing your mind: the possibility of getting kicked out of the Garrison, parental disapproval, the multiple laws probably being broken, and the sheer danger of the situation Keith's drawn you into.  
  
" _Relax_...such a worrywart." Keith is busy packing homemade explosives into a rucksack. There's a lot you still don't know about him...but you hadn't expected one of those little details to be the fact he could put together bombs! He hasn't even explained what he's planning on using them for. "They're mostly for looks. They don't cause too much damage." As if that's supposed to make you feel better.  
  
"I never expected you'd need bandages and tape to complete this--your... _project_!" You gesture to the coffee table he's hunched over. Like most of his sparse furniture, it's old and pieced together haphazardly. Just a thick slab of particle board held up on cinder blocks. There are coffee stains all over it because apparently he's never heard of coasters before. "If I had known, I never would've come."  
  
He doesn't respond and the silence is quite uncomfortable. He's biting his lip the way he does when we  _wants_  to speak but can't bring himself to fess up. While waiting for him to, you take the time to examine the humble abode.  
  
It's very much a bachelor pad. More akin to a hunting cabin than someone's permanent residence. It suits him though, ratty old furniture and sheet covered windows and all. There isn't much by way of decoration unless one considers dust en vogue. You can spy dirty dishes piled miles high in the kitchenette.  
  
It's messy, it's Keith.  
  
Said boy is going to great lengths to ensure his "toys" aren't jostled as he adjusts them inside the bag. Each one is bundled up and kept separate from the others via bubble wrap. His fingers handle them deftly as if he's had a lot of practice. No, let's not think about him having done this before...let's think about the black, fingerless gloves you'd sewn for him what feels a lifetime ago. It's rare to see him without them. Let's also think about that sporty red jacket you've patched up too many times to count.  
  
Your mother is a seamstress and you've learned a lot from her. You're constantly fixing things for friends. Especially Keith, who gets tears in clothes like a rowdy kid who keeps climbing and falling out of trees.  
  
You never ask why or how he gets his clothing so dirty and screwed up. Mostly because you know he probably wouldn't answer.  
  
Dark brows furrow over dark eyes. He opens his mouth (finally) as if to say something before clamming up. Sometimes it's hard to tell whether his unkempt hair is black or just a very deep brown, even harder in such dim lighting. There's only one lamp in the corner lit, the sun went down a long time ago. Both of your faces are cast in steep shadow, which doesn't help to lift the tense atmosphere.  
  
"Tell me what's going on." You put your hands on your hips. He sighs through his nose and closes his eyes, shoulders drooping.  
  
"I don't know how I should..." His voice is quiet, trailing off and likely aware whatever excuse he's about to come up with will sound pathetic.  
  
There's another moment of quiet suspense. The clock ticks away.  
  
"Alright, okay, it's just...well it's gonna' sound crazy." He ruffles his bangs. "I'm a bit sorry I had to get you involved--" Oh, only a  _bit_  sorry? "--but really, you're the only one I know and trust enough right now."  
  
Your defensive posture softens hearing this. So, he admits to trusting you? That's pretty big coming from him. Huge, actually. "So what exactly is it then?"  
  
Keith takes a deep breath. "I need to get inside the Garrison and find out what they know."  
  
Oh.  
  
 **Oh!**  
  
That does, in fact, sound crazy.  
  
He doesn't have to specify what particular knowledge he's after. You know well what he's after. If you were as reckless as he was, you'd probably chase after the same thing.  
  
As it is, you're not (usually) reckless. You try to stay in your lane, not step on any toes. There's safety in being unobtrusive.  
  
"So...the bombs are a distraction so you can slip inside?" Saying it out loud makes it feel like you're incriminating yourself already.  
  
"Well, yeah. It'll be a lot harder to sneak around when security is calm and alert to any changes. Not much really goes on around the base besides drills...so something to shake up the monotony should give me the advantage." Him explaining it just makes it so much worse. He's really thought this all out, hasn't he? How long has he been plotting?  
  
You move to sit next to him on the sofa. The fabric is worn and the cushions have sunk but it's cozy and familiar. "Knowing the truth is important...to both of us. I feel you have more stake in this, though. If anything, I'm glad you feel you can trust me."  
  
He turns to look at the hand you've placed on his shoulder. His fingers twitch.  
  
"How comfortable are you being an accomplice?" He asks.  
  
"Well, I wouldn't let you get in trouble by yourself, would I?"  
  
And that's when an alien spacecraft crashes into the desert.


End file.
